


Everything's Better Down Where It's Wetter

by Anonymous



Series: Hell-ward Bound [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Egg Laying, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Mpreg, Multi, Other, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PLEASE check tags and notes for warnings!</p>
<p>Very little changed after the end of the world.  Things still went bump in the dark.  Things still found themselves pieced, burned, salted and buried, courtesy of Winchesters.  It's just that sometimes now Dean will remember that Sam isn't just Sam anymore.</p>
<p>Dean and Lucifer have an accord but it doesn't mean they're friends.  Doesn't mean he does more than tolerate the prick.  And occasionally fuck him.  And occasionally fuck his friends.</p>
<p>(It's 5000 words of tentacle porn.  A gift to cheer up a friend.  Because Dean suffers so pretty.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's Better Down Where It's Wetter

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: Extremely dubious consent, controlling partner, restriction of food, mention of collaring, description of an enema, implied prostitution, tentacle sex, multiple partners, begging, alternate/inhuman genitalia and reproduction, angel/demon condoms, male pregnancy, egg laying inside another being, incidence of asphixiation, reference to drowning, anonymous partner/stranger sex, Nyan Cat and getting water from the Gulf of Mexico in your mouth.
> 
> Pretty sure that's everything.
> 
> Read at your own risk.

Very little changed after the end of the world.

 

Baby still took highways at 120, belting out ballads of the late 70s and early 80s. Dean still sometimes sang along, far more enthusiastic than in-tune. Things still went bump in the dark. Things still found themselves pieced, burned, salted and buried, courtesy of Winchesters. So the big things, the important things, really didn't change much when Apocalypse Now became Apocalypse Then.

 

It's just that sometimes now Dean wears his plaid overshirt buttoned all the way up to hide purpling imprints of a chain collar. Sometimes now Dean will find a hunt and Sam will drop a hand to his shoulder, tip his head once in half a shake, and Dean will close out the news site and head a full state in the opposite direction. Sometimes now Dean will remember that Sam isn't just Sam anymore.

 

It was more an absorption than a possession, their agreement made iron-clad through Sam's hard-learned skills of negotiation. And the final result was neither Sam nor Lucifer, truthfully, but an amalgam of them both with days where one will wane in favor of the other.

 

Today, Dean thinks, Lucifer is the one shining through.

 

There's a pair of dark-wash Levi's already spread out on the chair when he wakes up. They're scuffed and fraying about the hems, worn nearly white at the thighs and behind the knees, and nearly melded with the dark-brown belt threaded through the loops. There's a plain, dark shirt washed so many times its original color is indeterminable and soft with familiarity. There's a plaid shirt with a stain on one sleeve that Dean remembers fondly from a day when it was just him, a monster and an aluminum baseball bat. The underwear is silk, and dark wine red; 'manties', Dean had joked when he'd bought them. The outfit is rounded off by dark, soft boots worn in perfectly to Dean's feet over a decade. Familiar clothes, _favorite_ clothes; clothes with memories and emotions attached; clothes that ensure Dean would likely be more cooperative, if only to make sure these aren't destroyed.

 

A cursory search around the room turns up nothing else to wear, not even anything dirty stuffed under either of the beds of the nicest shit-hole motel in Amarillo. He wasn't expecting any different, just like whoever's wearing Sam's face today won't expect he won't look. Dean slides out of bed, naked and yawning, and plods to the bathroom.

 

The suite is completely deserted, and Dean finds that's just fine by him. He and Lucifer have an accord, sure. Doesn't mean they're friends. Doesn't mean he does more than tolerate the basically-omniscient prick.

 

And occasionally fuck him.

 

Or his friends.

 

Their relationship is complicated, delicate and convoluted. They make it work. Dean doesn't much see a choice. He could have taken up the offer to live in a nice cell somewhere, someplace with unlimited cable and Dr. Sexy, M.D. playing 24-7 so Lucifer could keep his promise to protect Dean with minimal interaction. But Dean's never been one for cages, even really nice ones with cable and wifi and room service.

 

There's a CVS bag on the counter, and suddenly the reason for his solitude becomes clear. Dean dislikes enemas. He really does. If he could muster up the energy for it, he might even say he hated them, about as much as he's able to hate anything these days. They make him feel disgusting; they make his cheeks and the tips of his ears and the back of his neck burn dark, splotchy red with humiliation, as if he had just soiled himself instead of cleansing.

 

He remembers the first time he had one, with LuciferSam standing over him, his knees folded up to his chest and warm water trickling into his anus. He remembers his breath hitching, remembers the whine that fell into a sob, remembers that they had to stop, that Sam had had to lift him into the tub and rinse the filth off his legs and thighs, had held him while he cried and hiccuped. He remembers that they had to throw out their towels after.

 

The towels on the counter are brand new and drier-soft. The bag is already set up and filled, empty bottle of distilled water sitting off to one side. This is expected then, not simply suggested, and if Dean refuses then next time he might not get the courtesy of privacy.

 

He goes through the motions with rapid efficiency, the familiarity of the task letting him keep his mind on anything but the situation at hand and long practice allowing him to reach the toilet before evacuating. When he washes, after, he scrubs fanatically between his legs until the sensation of  _wrongness_ is muted by stinging skin.

 

Lucifer is back by the time the shower runs cold, bearing a tall cup of black coffee and nothing else.

 

“Food service in this place bites ass,” Dean mutters as he dresses. There had only been a light, mostly-vegetable dinner the night before too, and he'd already begun to miss it by the time he was ready for bed. “You should complain to the manager.” He takes the coffee anyway and downs it, soldiering past the heat. “You planning on keeping this enigma bullshit up all day or what?” 

 

Lucifer doesn't answer. The ever-present chain-link collar tightens once, briefly, in an irritated pulse that belies the calm expression on his face. Dean simply glares back, defiant. Long fingers,  _Sam's_ fingers, hook beneath the links and tug.

 

“Don't make me drag you to the car, Dean,” he warns. “Or you'll have to spend the whole ride _shutting your cakehole_ and listening to a 10 hour loop of Nyan Cat.”

 

As a threat, it is far more effective than violence.

* * *

 

 

It's not a 10 hour drive, but only because Dean ends up behind the wheel and his philosophy is, with all the laws he's broken in his lifetime, speed limits are small potatoes. Sam will floor it on an interstate, but is very conscientious in town. Lucifer refuses to go a single tick above 3-over. They don't stop to eat so bathroom breaks aren't more than a minute or two, though by this point Dean's had so much water he's pretty sure his piss is fully recyclable, filtering unnecessary. Lucifer, the fucker, reacts to this declaration with a raised eyebrow and another 16.9 oz bottled water.

 

Dean's being prepped, he knows he's being prepped, and he has to swallow down his apprehension like a solid mass. They're in Texas, it's 104 degrees in the shade and every 65 miles, like clockwork, he's made to drink another half bottle.

 

“How bad,” he begs when they pull off at the Victoria County southbound stop. They've skirted neatly between Austin, Houston and Dallas, following directions saved up in Sammy's head instead of consulting a map. It's Corpus Christi, Dean thinks he remembers, that's the nearest place of any size next on their route. That, then the Gulf, or Mexico and there'd be far easier ways to get _there_. 

 

“Look just... just lay it on me, alright? It doesn't matter, I'm not gonna-” he sighs explosively and scrubs his fingers through his hair. “It's eating me, okay? And you know it. Just- just tell me what the fuck is going on. You know I can't say no.”

 

There's a look of sympathy that's all Sam's on his brother's face, and Dean knows,  _knows_ he'll be getting nothing.

 

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses and drops his head to the steering wheel. “Jesus, Sammy. _Please_.”

 

Because Dean is scared. Dean is scared and the very ends of his fingers shudder, and his teeth click when he clenches them. Lucifer's a clever bastard; imaginative and cruel and Dean doesn't know if it's about  _him_ or about his status as Michael's potential vessel but Lucifer gets off on seeing Dean hurting. He's got millennia of experience, a terrifyingly vindictive creativity, and the smug satisfaction that Dean  _won't_ say no because at the end of the night, when he's bruised and broken and bloody, it'll be all Sammy that crawls in beside him and wraps him close.

 

The touch on his shoulder must look reassuring, but feels nothing but cold and dead. If custom holds, he probably won't be seeing Sam again until all this is over.

 

“I get that I don't get a say,” Dean mutters. “But why the fuck do I not get to even _know_ who's gonna be fucking me?” He starts the car without an answer, and merges to 77 south.

 

Lucifer's hand stays cold on the back of his neck the rest of the drive.

* * *

 

 

Corpus Christi is a pretty typical tourist trap, with sea-shells strewn everywhere as decoration, Tex-Mex smelling thickly out the back of every food truck and plastic cowboy hats dangling in every other window. It's hot and muggy and Dean hates it, and hates what the salt in the air is gonna do to Baby's undercarriage if they stay here too long. Texas A&M co-eds pour into the bars to celebrate Friday night and Lucifer spends more often than not hovering at Dean's shoulder and sneering at anyone who dared give Dean a smile.

 

Samuel Winchester will never not be a fucking possessive bastard, regardless of who he's playing condom for.

 

They've parked as close to the beach as Dean's willing to get, and no cajoling or threat from Lucifer made him move even a foot. The pavement's already started to disappear under sand drifts and Dean's already planning to have his girl up on blocks while he apologizes in the only way she understands: elbow grease. Lucifer doesn't push it, and Dean revels in his tiny rebellions where he gets them.

 

It does mean that there's more than half a mile of walking down to the shore to do in the dark while bars ring out last call. The heat banks with the night but stubbornly doesn't break, leaving Dean with t-shirt sucking wetly to his abdomen and bunching uncomfortably. Not, of course, that there is anything about this situation that's comfortable. Sand, silver in the moonlight, shifts underneath his boots and make his stance just-unsteady enough that he's worried for his chances if it comes down to a fight. He's trying hard not to think about what comes next, and the harder he tries the more he focuses on it until it's all he can acknowledge, drowning out even the sound of the waves.

 

Dean doesn't know what it says about his life or character that he can wrench some minuscule measure of reassurance from the hand Lucifer slips under both his shirts to flatten against his back.

 

“Hey,” Sam's voice says softly. “Hey, come on Dean, settle down. You're working yourself up.” No one but Dean can hear the gentle mocking in his tone; no one but Dean can feel the amusement curling in the edges of the kiss pressed to his neck. “You could at least try to enjoy yourself.”

 

Dean laughs a harsh disbelief. He'll admit he's _come_ from some of Lucifer's games. Most of them, in fact: driving him to orgasm is one of those boxes Lucifer really likes to tick off. But that doesn't mean he's enjoying himself. They both know that that discord is one of the things the Devil likes most.

 

Lucifer kisses him properly, lapping quickly into Dean's mouth and Dean bites.

 

It's all part of the game they play. Dean will  _consent_ but he won't go easy, and Lucifer rarely ever seems to mind. And Dean forever lives in the hope that maybe  _this_ time he'll piss him off enough to cancel plans in favor of simple punishment. Dean can deal with pain; he's known it all his life.

 

The bastard doesn't even have the decency to bleed, pulling away instead with a laugh and a pat on Dean's head, as though he were a pet that had just learned a mildly amusing trick. Dean would give a hell of a lot for anger instead: condescension is just insulting.

 

When they break apart and continue, Dean's steps are only mostly his own. He can decide to walk forward, but he can't decide to turn away. He wants to panic, but his breathing has evened out without his notice. It seems that Lucifer has lost patience with delays.

 

“Strip,” the Devil commands when they have rounded a bend to a secluded inlet. 

 

“I'm not fucking any mermaids,” Dean lies, but strips down anyway. He will fuck whoever Lucifer tells him to. 

 

Socks, underwear and shirts get rolled small and stuffed into boots, and the jeans are folded carefully on top of the pile, seams aligning perfectly straight and folds pressed flat. When he can delay no longer he stands and turns, and suddenly the night is colder than he realizes. 

 

Sammy's eyes shouldn't be so flat, he thinks. Shouldn't be so dead.

 

“Please,” he begs one last time, and his voice breaks on the word.

 

Lucifer doesn't respond. Dean doesn't know if he would have: he doesn't get a chance.

* * *

 

 

It's the shock of cold that hits Dean first, even before the sensation of bruising grips on his wrists and ankles. The realization of the lack of air comes next and, even after decades of training, Dean still forgets himself for a moment and thrashes madly. He flashes through the dark water dizzyingly fast, faster than any human can, dragged along in the wake of something he can't make out. His limbs go nowhere when he jerks them back, and the strength that holds them tell him that they wouldn't even if he had a chance to get decent leverage. His mouth is closed, mercifully, but the impact had forced the breath out of his lungs and a terror you can never fully train yourself out of begins to take hold. He feels his ears pop with changing pressure, feels his pulse echoing against the hold at his arms and panic spasms through his limbs hard and fast. He's  _dying_ , he's realized; he's dying naked and unarmed in the Gulf of Mexico and it shouldn't be funny but it  _is_ . He needs air, needs it  _fast_ and needs it sooner than it would take to turn around and head back to the surface.

 

You never get used to dying, and Dean's never had the misfortune of drowning before. The tears on his face stand out solely by how hot they are.

 

He keeps fighting, such as it is, but the motions slow as the water temperature drops.

 

When he breaks into air, for a panicked second Dean doesn't even realize. But then, with a high-pitched whistle of desperation, he gulps huge lungfuls, uncaring of the stagnant staleness. There isn't water to cough up but he chokes and sputters anyway, unable to convince his body that he's still alive.

 

The ground is cool and smooth under his hands and knees, a dark polished rock lit dimly from someplace he can't see. The room is brightest where it meets the water and fades to shadows further away. Water that sluiced from his hair or down his back hit the surface and skittered away, leaving it seeming as dry as it was before. They make shit like this, Dean knows; in labs and test tubes and stuff. He gets the feeling that this, however, was far from man-made.

 

Until this point he'd resisted looking at his captor, unwilling somehow to make this all seem real. With whisper of movement, and noises that were distinctly not footsteps, that choice was taken from him.

 

Tentacles, he noticed first. How could he not? Eight of them: each a soft gray like pictures he's seen of dolphins, each maybe nine feet long. They've spread out cardinally near the tips, with about two feet braced against the ground and the last foot or so of each in constant motion. They draw together at their base, seamlessly fusing to the torso of the figure bearing his scrutiny with resigned tolerance.

 

The upper half is male, or looks male. Or looks like what a human male would look like, if their skin was the same soft gray as the tentacles and their eyes were deep gold and slitted width-wise. His ears were pretty small, Dean noticed with rising hysteria, and his bald head looked more like a feature than a fashion choice.

 

“I'll let you have that one free,” Dean blustered, scrambling to his feet and darting back. “But try that again and I will _fuck you up_ , do you understand me?” The guy, thing, grins, teeth like nails glinting in double rows. Dean takes another step back. It laughs, it must laugh; that noise it makes can't really be anything else, and it spits out a sort of chittering, echoing set of clicks that Dean, fluent universally in trash talk, has no problem getting the gist of. “How about we try this where you don't jump me from behind huh?” he snarls. “Tough guy like you, shouldn't be a problem. You want some of this?” Dean's unarmed, but not truly helpless. Not yet, he can't admit that yet. The creature seems to realize, and its clicks are distinctly amused.

 

And no longer mono-directional.

 

Dean twists, slamming his back to the wall and a purple-blue limb passes harmlessly through where his neck had just been. “Wouldn't be a party with just you huh?” he snaps, and while he can dodge the second and third attempt, the fourth overwhelms him with a mass of limbs looming out of the half-darkness and slamming him hard against the floor.

 

His vision flashes pained-white when his head meets the floor with a crack. He only manages half a yelp before he is caught again, hand and foot, and dragged down out of the meager light. Water touches his foot and he  _screams_ and kicks  _no_ not again, but his struggles are even more useless than the time previous. Now for every tentacle he rails against there's two and three and five more to replace it, suckers kissing hard, circular bruises into his skin. 

 

It's a hallway, not a  _room_ but an entry, and the half-man-like creature that dragged him from the surface watches him heaved down the passage with a look of satisfaction. The last Dean sees of the light is him, held balanced on his own tentacles, his teeth flashing a grin of white-sharp-danger.

 

Water slops into his mouth but doesn't close over his head; a small mercy but with the light gone he takes what little he can. It's shallow, probably no higher than his knees, and even saltier than the seawater. Warm, too, warm to body temperature and roiling viciously and this is nothing Dean's ever been taught to fight.

 

Going limp can't trick these creatures, and there are multiples of them he knows from dim awareness of movement. Throwing all his strength in one direction or another isn't be enough to stop them from forcing his legs apart. Clenching down hard in sudden, instinctive panic doesn't stop them from pressing inside him.

 

He howls. 

 

The water is saltier but no filmier than seawater, and the wetness of the tentacle  _can't_ be doing anything to lubricate its way. It feels nearly three fingers wide and about as long, and it's been eight hours since Dean had slicked himself up to take the thin nozzle of the enema. It's not enough, it's not  _nearly_ enough and Dean breathes out 'Jesus' and 'fuck' again and again as little, equally useless prayers. 

 

He can't fight, because he won't win and the simple act of it could damage him beyond what Lucifer would deign to repair. For the second time today, hot tears sting at the corners of his eyes. 

 

His submission means no more to the creatures than his resistance did, and the intrusion doesn't wait now that Dean is trying to force himself to relax. The pressure is even and constant, and every unclenching muscle is matched with a deeper slide. Water laps against Dean's chest and sides as he's pressed down to lie in the shallow pool, only struggling to keep his chin above the water.

 

And suddenly there's a chest below his head: slight shoulders flow down to a flat stomach which disappears into the writhing mass below and above and behind him. There are hands, human hands, pressing one of his ears to those breasts, then curling around the back of his head at the base of his skull. It's bewildering, because everything's the right shape, in the right place, but far too soft, as if supported less by bone and more by cartilage. It's just familiar enough to be incongruous and just strange enough to be distracting. It's the heat of the body cradling him, and the quiet clicking next to his ear that tricks his body into forgetting.

 

He relaxes for just a moment, and the tentacle surges inside.

 

Dean screams, more because it  _should_ hurt than because it does. It feels like pressure, like fullness, and for a moment he isn't sure if the flutter against his stomach is outside him or in. It's thick,  _oh_ it's so thick and the tip is curled around a little like a fist inside him. He can't move, can't speak, can't do anything but lie in their hold and shudder. It pulses, soft and regular like a heartbeat and Dean learns he can make noises after all. His eyes are blown wide in the darkness and each pulse tears tiny, wordless chirps from the very back of his throat. It's  _good_ and it shouldn't be, has no right to be when he's stuffed so full it's impossible to miss his prostate because pressure is everywhere and from all sides. 

 

His head drops; he's lost the energy to even hold it up anymore.

 

As if that was their cue, the tentacles pinning his legs push out and up and fold him into a crouch, straddling him across the human-shaped torso. His dick is full and hard, has been that way since the first moment he hit the water. He's fucked up and he knows it, so fucked up it's a wonder he can feel any shame at all over enjoying this.

 

He knows better than to be relieved when the tentacle slides out. It is that part that's painful, really, as his muscles clamp down on an intrusion that's no longer there. He's hollow and nearly cramping from the loss and it's almost enough to distract him from how exposed the position leaves him. Feather-soft tendrils brush against him: his thighs, his navel, behind his knees, passing again and again until he no longer flinches from them. The body under him rocks and hums something deep enough that he can feel it in his chest more than he can hear it. And still, all around him, limbs wind and writhe, announcing their presence through their movement.

 

He's not tracking time anymore; he could have been crouched there for a minute or two, or an hour or more and not know the difference. New tentacles circling his legs don't trigger as anything especially different until a second body slides across his back.

 

It's larger than the one below him. The shoulders are wider and the breasts pressed against his shoulder blades are fuller. It's nearly the weight a woman it's size would be, far less than Dean typically could handle, but his muscles are less firm than jelly right now and he's helpless to do anything to stop her.

 

What penetrates him next is not a tentacle.

 

It's not a cock either, he doesn't think, though it is possible these things aren't proportional. It's no more than a finger wide and maybe only a little longer. It's rigid, unjointed and slides fully into Dean with no resistance at all.

 

Dean hates it. He doesn't know why. It's an unsatisfying tease, for one: a promise of something without a follow through. Dean's been stretched so far that, if it had gotten the angle right, it might have slipped that thing into him without his even noticing. But it's something beyond the physical that repulses him about the touch of it, even as it begins to rock and rut against his back.

 

He's expecting the load but still cries a strangled “oh oh  _oh”_ when hot, thick spurts fill him. It was this that he hated the most, being filled like a whore without enough self-preservation to demand a condom. 

 

Somewhere in the darkness, something wrapped warningly around his throat as if reading his mind and expecting trouble. Dean holds as still as he can and breathes slowly.

 

There are globs of the stuff, thicker than human spunk and alarmingly soft fingers scoop up what runs down his thighs and press it back inside him, before the creature slips off his back and into the water with a quiet splash.

 

It is quickly replaced, before Dean could get any illusions that this was over, by another creature smaller than the first but still larger than the one below him. He doesn't count how many swap out, crawling across his back and settling thin, reed-like spigots inside him before cumming. He doesn't want to know how many use him before the one who held him slides out of his arms for her turn at his ass. He certainly doesn't want to know how many of them went after her.

 

He feels fuller than the enema that morning, or yesterday or last week or whenever it was, when they finish with him. They paused only to tip water or a sweet syrup that left his whole body buzzing down his throat, or to catch any of the release that spilled and press it back into his anus. Dean came, once or maybe twice, so much of an afterthought that he barely noticed it except for how it felt like it pulled the loads inside him deeper.

 

He's so full by then he's sure his stomach is distended, though it seemed still flat when he'd found himself capable of checking. His return to the lit room was far gentler than his exit. Now he isn't dragged by his joints down a canal of brine: now he's cradled and carried as if valuable.

 

He almost prefers the former.

 

The first one, the gray male, is waiting for him there. It's far too bright for Dean to open his eyes and he's too wrung out to glare with all the hate he wishes he could muster, but it while it takes 43 muscles to glare it only takes 16 to flip the bird. Dean hopes the sentiment is universal.

 

He's deposited carefully on his stomach and the tentacles that bore him forward caress his legs one last time, as if in a fond goodbye. The gray makes that laugh Dean's heard only once before but decides he hates it more than anything.

 

When tentacles press at his knees, they fold up like they've been conditioned to. Dean's shoulders dip down, his ass dips up and his thighs spread apart like they've done again and again for however long he was held down in the dark. Regardless of the language difference, there's no mistaking the contented hum at his reaction.

 

_This_ one has a cock, thick and full and substantial and so unexpected that Dean squeaks in surprise and then resolves to slit this one's throat so there'd be no witnesses. Tentacles weave around his chest, just below his nipples and just above his pelvis, holding him fast without aggravating the rawness he's only just noticing around his wrists. Yet another worms under his throat, pulling him just enough off the ground to ease the pressure the position puts on his lower back.

 

Its cock presses deep until its pelvis is fully flush with Dean's rear, and the man has to choke back a whimper of disgust at the quiet squelch that greets the movement. When it pulls back it's the same: a wet sucking pop that prompts tremors of revulsion. It's sloppy seconds, or thirds or fifths and Dean can't remember ever feeling so used. There isn't even any need for lubricant any longer: evidence of how many times he's given it up slicks him better than store-bought KY.

 

Dean wishes it would just fuck him, fast and hard and get it over with, but it seems content to move glacially slow, more concerned with not spilling anything than taking pleasure. It's ages before it comes, long minutes where Dean's forearms begin to cramp and his thighs shake with the effort of keeping still. When Dean collapses it follows, bonelessly contorting with the new position to keep Dean efficiently filled and effectively plugged.

 

It's like this that slow realization begins to crawl up the base of Dean's hindbrain.

 

Dean isn't being fucked.

 

Dean is being penetrated, but he isn't being fucked. He's being  _fertilized_ . 

 

The noise he makes is indescribable, a keening wail mixed with pure disbelief. They've- The females. They've laid  _eggs_ inside of him and the male is-

 

It comes, an ejaculation long and steady and it groans and grunts as it wrings every drop out of itself and deposits it deep inside Dean. A tentacle curls around Dean's dick for the first time, the thick body too clumsy to do much more than wrap around it and pulse until Dean, staggeringly, comes as well.

 

There are teeth against his shoulder, sharp but gentle and not breaking skin, the way a cat might gnaw on a hand to show affection. 'You'd damn right better be affectionate,' Dean thinks hysterically. 'I'm carrying your fucking children.'

 

They fuck twice more, with the gray pressing about an inch of one tentacle inside Dean's ass between rounds. Dean doesn't come again, doesn't participate much more except to bend his legs when pressed and, once, to lick at a tentacle that passed close to his mouth.

 

It had been a passing thought: he was curious about the taste of it. The male grinned widely and threaded as much of a tentacle into Dean's mouth as he would take and fucked him the last time that way, Dean suckling gently on the silky, soft limb.

* * *

 

 

The ride to the surface was no less terrifying for the sips of air the male fed him, mouth to mouth, periodically. It was dark again when they breached the surface, but Dean was far too gone to try to look for the moon, to judge how long he'd been gone. He is limp and helpless as a child as the creature passes him into Sammy's warm, solid arms. He is dead-weight, so much so that Sammy gives up on trying to dress him on the beach and simply swaddles him in a jacked and carries him to the car. Dean is aware of the car ride, is aware of the little apartment on the beach Sammy seems to have secured for them. He's aware of the bath to wash the salt from his skin.

 

He doesn't sleep until he and Sam climb into bed and curl together like puppies.

 

He drifts off to the hum of the water pump maintaining the massive aquarium dominating half the bedroom.

 

 


End file.
